


5 Times Coulson Witnessed Clint Panicking...

by affecctaed



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Caring Coulson, Coulson Lives, Get Together, Kidnapping, M/M, Panic Attacks, Torture, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:47:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23964886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/affecctaed/pseuds/affecctaed
Summary: ...and one time he didn't have to.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Phil Coulson
Comments: 9
Kudos: 128





	5 Times Coulson Witnessed Clint Panicking...

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warning: This fic includes brief torture, waterboarding, panic attacks, injuries, and recovering from the aftermath of torture. Please proceed with caution.

The first time Coulson witnessed Clint panicking, they’re on a mission in Bucharest, and while Clint’s trying to not let his guts spill out of his stomach, and he’s starting to think  _ maybe this is my last time in the field _ . Thankfully it isn’t, but as he slowly fades away, he sees Clint start hyperventilating, curses spilling from his lips, bitten raw. 

“Shit, Coulson, don’t die on me, you motherfucker,” Clint had rambled, trying to staunch the bleeding with his shirt, dust and soot streaked face tense with panic. 

“Sorry,” he had apparently muttered, giving way to the darkness slowly taking over, and waking up in medical five days later, one medically-induced coma and sixty-three stiches later, had found Clint sitting by his bedside, dozing with a pile of vintage Captain America comics in his lap and dark circles under his eyes. 

After that, he had turned from  _ Agent Barton _ to Clint, and he had turned from  _ sir  _ and  _ Coulson  _ to Phil, and he had a tall blonde raiding his apartment and demanding that they watch Dog Cops and Rise of the Guardians for the tenth time. 

(“It’s a good movie,  _ sir _ , fuck you,” Clint had insisted, beer sloshing over the sides of the glass and onto his faded Snoopy t-shirt. 

Coulson had raised his eyebrow, and pretended not to notice the glee on his face as he gave in and clicked the movie on the TV, and further pretended not to notice as Clint mouthed the words along with Jack Frost at the end, busying himself with rearranging the pile of paper in his lap.)

  
  


The second time was in Siberia, and over the video-feed, he watched as Clint thrashed away from his captors, watching as he was dunked into a tub of water over and over again. 

Coulson had tried to keep his face blank and impassive as he watched alongside Nick Fury and tried to ignore the gagging and choking noises that came from his mouth, furiously suppressing the will to find whoever did this and rip their arms off.

He had continued to watch as Clint was dragged back to his cell, and curled into a ball, hyperventilating and panicking, until Fury shut off the feed, and with surprising gentleness, had asked Coulson if he was alright. 

He had managed a  _ Fine, Director _ , and stalked out of the office, barking orders into his cell, trying to locate him as soon as possible. 

Finding him four days later, beaten and battered in an abandoned warehouse, incoherent and muddled, hopped up on sedatives and drugs, had been one of the most relieving moments of his life. 

(“Missed me, sir?” Clint had asked, staring up at him from the pristine hospital bed, bandages covering every inch of him, half-smiling. 

“Not quite, Agent Barton,” he had replied, and let a small smile play on his face as he watched Clint drift off again.) 

  
  


The third time was two weeks after Siberia, and as Coulson had watched the rain pour down his window and contemplated ditching all his paperwork for the evening, Clint had crashed through the door, sopping wet, eyes wild and breathing hard. 

Coulson had helped him change out of his wet clothes, cranked up the heater, and let Clint curl himself around him, clinging like a limpet, until his breathing had evened out and his grip on the lapels of his suit had relaxed, so Coulson could wriggle away, and throw a blanket over his prone form. 

He had pretended not to notice anything as Clint woke up the next morning, confused and disoriented, on the couch Coulson had in his office. Coulson hadn’t looked up from his paperwork, methodically filled in the rest of Form 224-B, and pretended he hadn’t been there for the whole night, alternating between nodding off and getting ahead on his paperwork (he was now five days ahead). 

He pretended not to notice as Clint left with a hurried  _ sorry _ and that he avoided him for the next week, until Coulson had shown up at his quarters with his clothes and a pizza. 

(“I’ll bet all the junior agents are freaking out right now,” snarked Clint, looking pale and wan and far from his usual self. “Where is Agent Coulson going with that pizza? I heard he killed someone with a slice of pepperoni!” 

“Contrary to popular belief, I am not as violent as everyone makes me out to be,” he had responded dryly, and stole a mushroom off Clint’s plate. 

“Oh my god, Agent Coulson just stole my mushroom, someone call the medics, I must be hallucinating,” Clint had yelped, nearly tipping backwards off the couch. 

Coulson had raised a single eyebrow, and stole another mushroom.

He had also pretended not to notice as a cup of coffee and a jar of cookies appeared on his desk two days later, with a sticky note drawing with of a toadstool mushroom and a tie.  _ Thanks _ , the note had read, in Clint’s blocky handwriting.) 

  
  


The fourth time was when he kissed Clint for the first time, outside the seedy bar that they had gone to after work. 

“Fuck, I can’t, not again,” Clint had muttered as they broke apart, breaking into a run and disappearing into the darkness of the night. 

Coulson had stood there, heart beating quickly, and pretended not to notice the lingering feelings of disappointment and shame, and made his way back to his apartment. 

“GODAMMIT!” he had yelled, throwing a mug across the room, it shattering to pieces on the tile. He undid his tie from his neck, and had collapsed on the couch, grabbing a beer from the fridge. 

(Coulson had then tried not to smile as Clint showed up at his door the next day, shoving him up against the wall and kissing him senseless.

“Sorry for bolting yesterday,” Clint apologized as he traced patterns against Coulson’s leg. “I might’ve freaked out a bit.” 

“Don’t worry about it,” Coulson had replied, fingers idly scratching Clint’s scalp. “Not the first time.”) 

  
  


The fifth time was after the Battle of Manhattan, as Stark was insisting they call it, and Clint had just found out he was alive.  _ Life Model Decoy,  _ he had said, spreading his hands. 

They had fallen exhausted, into bed together, entangled in each others arms, once they got back to Coulson apartment (which they now shared), and waking up the next day, Coulson had found Clint curled up in a ball in one corner of the bed, on the edge of a panic attack, hands clawing at his hair. 

“What’s wrong?” he had asked carefully, slowly reaching out and dislodging Clint’s hands from his hair. 

“I thought I was going to wake up this morning,” he had gasped out, breath hitching. “And you wouldn’t be here anymore,” Clint forced out. 

Coulson had wrapped himself around him, and rubbed his back as he cried, silent wracking sobs that shook his entire frame, whispering reassurances. 

(“‘m sorry,” Clint had muttered, three hours later, into Coulson’s chest. “I just- just-” 

“I know,” Coulson had replied, effectively shutting him up, and held him tighter in his arms. “Me too.”) 

  
  


The last time, however, he didn’t need to.

Coulson had taken Clint out to a deserted park, in the middle of night, and as the snow poured down around them, fingered the tiny box in his pocket. 

“Phil? Everything okay?” he had asked. “I feel like I should either be panicking or fearing for my life,” he muttered, curling his long fingers around Coulson’s wrist. 

Coulson smiled, pulling out the box and dropped to his knee, in the middle of the park, not caring that his pants were now soaked, had asked, “Marry me?” 

(“Suck it, Stark,” Clint had gloated the next morning. “I’m getting married before you,” he smirked. 

Coulson, who was in the kitchen at the time, pretended not to notice the way Stark sputtered and sprayed his coffee across the room, as he noticed the matching ring on his finger, three seconds later. 

And he pretended not to notice the warmth pooling in his sternum as Clint stole a piece of toast, draping himself over his back.) 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please leave kudos/comments/feedback! I'd love to know how to improve my writing.
> 
> (My first C/C fic, how did I do?)
> 
> UPDATE: thank you so much for 100 kudos!
> 
> [ here's ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25048759)[](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25048759) another C/C fic of mine if you guys want to check it out! 


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